Rhythm
by The Ocean Is My Inkwell
Summary: Alfred Noyse's "The Highwayman" retold as a short story. My original writing. Rated T for action and thematic element.


_Rhythm_

_Adapted from Alfred Noyse's Ballad "The Highwayman"_

The midnight was dark and cloudless, the night ere the night of the new moon. The wind's wolf head howled and battered the worn, closed shutters, and far off in the distance—to faint for one to hear—was the steady _tlot-tlot_ of a horse galloping up the highway.

The cobblestones rang and clattered beneath the roan stallion's hooves in the deserted inn-yard. Its rider, clothed in scarlet coat and flashing rapier, tapped at the barred shutters and called out softly into the frosty night. Not a soul answered him or sang out in reply; but then he whistled a soft tune, a deep and long-forgotten one, and immediately a window pane creaked open above him.

Her face was cast with shadows, but he detected her fingers working quickly as they plaited a blood-red love-knot in her hair—as was the custom in his day. It was his love, the ruby-lipped innkeeper's daughter.

"Bess!" whispered he. "Not a day's journey from here I have spotted my prize; tonight I shall ride out alone and claim it mine."

Her dark eyes flashed—with excitement, or dire fear, or perhaps both. "When shall I expect you?" she queried, her voice low for fear of evil ears.

"I shall return tomorrow," said he, "but perhaps not soon. If you do not find me here by noon, search for me at this place at midnight, when the moon shines high in the sky. Do not fear, I shall be there; my footsteps shall ring at midnight, though the very devil may pursue me."

She shuddered at these words; then, of a sudden impulse, her fingers ceased their work, and she loosed her dark locks, and her curtain of long ebony hair fell about the casement like a waterfall. The rider reached up and kissed the waves of her sweet dark tresses, murmuring a regretful "Farewell."

"Farewell, and ride on safely," cried she in response, and watched the shimmering ribbon road long after he had wheeled his horse about and galloped far away toward the long-set sun.

And not far away, from the other side of the wall, Tim the lovestruck ostler listened with a tainted heart.

He did not come by morning, nor by the height of day; the sun waned high in the sky, and marching footsteps tramped across the highway. Bess flew to the window, hoping to see her love there; but her hopes were dashed to shards at the sight of fourscore scarlet soldiers.

They approached the inn and entered, and were silent and brooding as to the purpose of their mission; they spoke low only to each other over their tankards of the innkeeper's ale. Then, one by one, without begging a word of permission from the proprietor, they grimly ascended the flight of stairs at the back straight toward his daughter's room.

They found her by the window, watching the ribbon road; and quickly they seized and gagged her, and they bound tightly her hands and feet, and with ropes they secured the barrel of a fully loaded musket pointed straight toward her heart. She struggled violently, but they mocked her, jesting, "If you move another finger, you shan't move it ever again."

Her heart pounding, she watched helplessly as the redcoated men positioned themselves so cleverly just behind the cover of the window pane, one at the right, one at the left, and death straight in the center.

Despite their mocking words, she struggled on the bed, working her hands into a frightful sweat. The coarse ropes chafed her skin; the sweat beaded on her brow. Then at last—just as the clock tolled midnight—her fingertip touched the trigger.

Midnight tolled death.

And then she heard it—the steady _tlot-tlot_, _tlot-tlot_ of the stallion's hooves and his unsuspecting rider. The soldiers stood at attention; they cocked their muskets and eased them through the window. Nearer he came still—he rounded the bend, his shadow appeared just over the brow of the hill—and he was riding straight toward the window, toward that portal of death.

Bess claimed the trigger and pulled with all her might. The shot rang and exploded throughout the yard and carried out the window; the smoke fell about as a curtain. The musket ball shattered the eerie glass calm of midnight. Her lifeless body slumped, and her eyes drifted shut.

The highwayman wheeled his horse at the mere noise of the explosion. Who had died? What had happened at the inn? Had Bess shot down a man?

It was not till dawn at the nearest town that he heard the fatal news that had spread as wildfire: his love, his own beloved Bess, had waited for him all night and offered up her life—that he be warned and saved.

Shrieking and wailing, he again turned his horse back eastward and galloped with all his might. His rapier was drawn and held high above his head, flashing in the blinding light of the rising sun. He drove his horse on, clattering down the highway, and at last reached the old inn-yard.

It was deserted. He could only imagine now what his Bess had looked like when she had pulled the trigger: frightened, desperate, but loving. Crying aloud once more, he advanced on his horse—but never got any farther.

The shots rang out, one after another, never stopping until he gasped and rolled off his horse. The redcoats, grim and determined, shot him down till he died, lying in the middle of the highway beside his horse, still clutching to his breast his magnificent jeweled rapier. A bunch of lace, white and spotless, still adorned his throat; but his own coat hung limp and as crimson as his very own death.


End file.
